Remembering those Delta pets

Writer’s note: Pets are family, or at least they're regarded as family in the Delta. They always have been. Snooks, Bert, Goldie, Pluto, Merry Legs, and so many others --- these critters were as much as part of my family when I was growing up as any of the cousins!

The first pet I remember having was “BuffaloBillJerryJuniorBozoTimLawley” (always spoken quickly and in full --- no room for nicknames here!) I was very young, probably about 6, and a lovely yellow kitten came to live with our family. Selecting a name for the kitten became problematic because everyone had a name that they liked. My solution was to combine all of the names into one long one, and that’s exactly what I did. The poor kitten grew up with something of a complex, I suspect, because his was the longest name both in our household and in our entire neighborhood.

Until my father’s illness forced his retirement from the United States Corps of Engineers, we lived in a small community just north of Alexandria. Though our yard was fenced, and there was a barn and pasture as part of the property, pets were generally restricted in number and type.

It was not until our family moved to Tensas Parish, and I found myself “at home” on Kenilworth Plantation, my mother’s family home, that I was able to expand my pet collection.

More than dogs

When my family moved to Kenilworth, much of my free time was spent exploring. I had moved to my maternal grandfather’s farm without the slightest concept of what “living on the farm” might mean. At first, I was intimidated by the large home and even larger yard. The home had nine rooms, all with high ceilings. I quickly became comfortable there, creating my own “space.”

The yard and surrounding land were different matters, however. The only yard I had ever known had been a typical small town lot surrounded by a protective fence. There was one large tree behind the house, and a small patch of woods further back. By contrast, Kenilworth’s yard was acres large, without fencing, and populated by enormous old pecan trees that provided shade in the summer and delicious nuts in the fall. The main house was set back from the two-lane highway and beyond that, Lake St. Joseph. To the rear of the main house was a garden that had once held my grandmother’s roses. By the time I moved there, she was dead and the rose garden had been converted into a lush strawberry patch surrounded by white-painted stones. Beyond were the kitchen garden, the barns, and the pastures and fields. When I went walking, there were endless spaces to explore.

Delta pets of yesteryear

All of this outdoor space meant that there were nearly no restrictions on the number or kind of pets I might have. Because cats were the only pets that I had any prior experience with, I was immediately attracted to Kenilworth’s abundant cat population. Daddy Moore explained that the cats “earned their keep” by being aggressive mousers. They populated the old commissary — once upon a time the plantation “store” — and the other outbuildings, spending their lives in relative peace.

I say “relative peace” because there were also dogs on our farm. While the two groups generally avoided one another’s space, there were times when their paths crossed. This usually happened when a curious puppy lacking necessary experience with kitty claws would venture too close. The puppies had several ways of approaching the cats. Sometimes they would just romp right up, tongues out and tails wagging, fully expecting to find a playmate. Other times they would attempt to creep up, crawling low on their bellies, and hoping the element of surprise would make the difference in the ensuing battle. Either way, the puppies were destined to lose. Once they were grown dogs with some experience with cats under their belts, they generally avoided them at all costs.

While all of the Kenilworth cats were outside dwellers and had rodent extermination responsibilities, not all of the Kenilworth dogs were either outside much or had any “job” other than being an object of devotion and affection for their owners. Two dogs that ruled the household when I was living on the farm were black-and-tan feists. The older of the two was Pluto, and by the time I met him he was already an elderly dog with gray in his coat and prone to long naps and gentle snuggles. His daughter, Snooks, was still more puppy than dog when I first met her, and her energy bursts could be unnerving at times. Both dogs made good household critters, generally minding their manners and spending much of their time at leisure. Once outdoors, however, both were easily distracted by the resident squirrel population. Both would give chase, although Pluto’s was more of a brief sprint when compared to Snooks’ longer marathons.

The rest of the farm dogs were “working” dogs — either trained to flush quail or rabbits, or to retrieve downed waterfowl while my grandparents were hunting. Bert, Daddy Moore’s setter, was shipped to Daddy Moore when just a puppy. My grandparents both loved to hunt, and old hunting friends from Illinois sent the puppy down as a gift not long after my family moved to Louisiana. My brother reports that Bert was never properly trained, but he still managed.

The idea of making a bee a pet was totally unrealistic to me, but since my grandfather had suggested it, I had to consider it. He explained that the bee with no white on its head was called a “goblin” bee because they might sting.(Photo: Getty Images)

The goblin bee

Other “pets” I had included turtles and the occasional carpenter bee that I would very carefully tie a string around and “fly” like a kite. It wasn’t until I was in college that I was introduced to the poetry of Miss Emily Dickinson, an eccentric genius to say the least. Her poem “Part Three: Love VI If you were coming in the fall . . . “ refers to a “goblin bee” that “goads “ and . . . “will not state its sting.” I instantly knew exactly what she was writing about.

It all goes back to the day that Daddy Moore helped me to understand the carpenter bees that treated the large open spaces below the main house as theirs and theirs alone. This created a crisis of sorts for me because that was my space --- cool and welcoming during the long, hot Delta summers. The bees buzzed everywhere, alternately drilling holes in the cypress support structures and coming much too close to me as I tried to read. When I complained to Daddy Moore, he accompanied me back downstairs with a length of string about a yard long in hand.

As we sat together under the house, my grandfather told me to look carefully at the bees and tell me if they were all the same. I assumed that they were because I was usually so determined to avoid them that I hadn’t conducted any substantial study of their appearance. To my surprise, I realized that most had white dots on the tops of their heads, though occasionally I would see one with an entirely black head.

When I told Daddy Moore what I had noticed, he assured me that now I had the knowledge I needed to have the bees as pets. The idea of making a bee a pet was totally unrealistic to me, but since my grandfather had suggested it, I had to consider it. He explained that the bee with no white on its head was called a “goblin” bee because they might sting. The bees with the white dots were friends who pollinated our plants and who, if treated properly, would make dandy self-propelled “kites” for curious little girls.

Daddy Moore then carefully caught a bee with a white dot and then even more carefully tied his length of string around its neck so that the string would not interfere with the bee’s wing-beat. He then released the bee, handed me the string and listened to my giggles as the bee soared at the end of its tether. He reminded me to avoid the “goblin” bees when I was searching for a pet bee in the future.

Over the years, I learned that appearance is actually not a rock-solid guarantee when it comes to bees. Some bees with the white dots did sting, and some with the black heads did not. Later in another college class, I learned that the males had the white dot and the females had the entirely black heads. Males rarely sting; females may.

The other animals on the farm weren’t actually pets. Goldie, my aunt’s horse, was hardly a pet. Neither was Robert, the mule. The chickens and cattle certainly weren’t. Growing up we viewed all of those as working animals that had a role to play in maintaining life and well-being on the farm.

A flying squirrel.(Photo: Getty Images)

Flying squirrels

Occasionally, someone would admit to having a raccoon or lizard for a pet but that was about all. And then there was Faye Dandridge, one of my schoolmates just a few years ahead at Newellton High School. She had about the most “exotic” pet that I knew of when we were growing up — a pair of flying squirrels.

Faye’s father found the pair of babies in a tree he and a crew had felled and brought them home to her. A birdcage in the barn was converted to a flying squirrel home, and placed in Faye’s bedroom. The little squirrels were so smart that they quickly figured out how to unlatch the cage door. That wasn’t their only trick. They also reveled in climbing to the top of Faye’s bedroom door and then flying down to her bed --- usually at night with her in it. They also discovered the open innersprings under her mattress and converted that space into their personal playground. Enough was enough, so Faye’s father put the cage on the back porch. Freedom came quickly!

Delta pets today

In today’s Delta, times have changed in many ways. Mechanism has replaced manpower, with fancy machines making the mules all but unnecessary. Gone are the teams standing hitched awaiting first light so that they and their handlers could go to the great fields and turn the good earth.

Delta folk still love their cats and dogs and take great pains to make sure that they are properly cared for. Names for the darlings have changed with the times, though.

“Thing 1” and “Thing 2” are our next-door neighbor cats, coal-black beauties that are nearly identical. Their humans can tell them apart, but no one else can. They were mischievous kittens so were named for the pair in the Dr. Seuss book The Cat in the Hat. The Things behave more like dogs than cats, following their owner around when called and even enjoy rides on the family four-wheeler.

Tucker Lamkin with his two chicks.(Photo: Brittani Durand)

Chickens as pets

There has also been an expansion of the definition of “pet” and evidence of this new way of thinking is everywhere. The Kenilworth chickens and roosters understood perfectly what their job was. The hens were to lay eggs, produce chicks, and ultimately become the main ingredient in a gumbo. The roosters were necessary for this cycle, but because they were generally ill-tempered and unsociable, they were few in number in any chicken yard. Daddy Moore always had two roosters for his 20 or so hens. Absolutely not a single one of our hens or roosters would ever have considered themselves a pet.

I thought this was still true until I met Tucker Lamkin and his flock. This energetic, big-hearted Delta boy has chickens he puts in a harness and takes for a walk! His love for chickens (and their eggs) began early when he visited his grandparents’ farm. For his fifth birthday, he asked for chickens of his own so that his family could "save money on eggs.” One of the original four he received for his birthday, Peeper, is now 3 years old and still his favorite. She even has a sweater that a cousin made for her. For several years, Peeper enjoyed taking a walk in her harness. Now she has become too plump to enjoy that special pleasure, but other, thinner hens are more than willing to take her place. Tucker explains that Peeper is now the “grandma hen” because she has raised so many chicks

An expanded menagerie

As Tucker has gotten bigger, so has his menagerie. He has a pet bearded dragon he named “Spike” because of the many little spikes all over his body. Spike was a gift for his eighth birthday and is believed to be about 4 months old. Tucker has a leash for Spike (yes, there are leashes for bearded dragons) but Spike is a reluctant participant in this. Most of the time Spike lives in his aquarium with a wire lid. But because he is growing so quickly, Tucker is making plans to expand his habitat.

Tucker Lamkin and Spike, the bearded dragon.(Photo: Brittani Durand)

Do you remember going to the Gulf and begging your parents to buy a hermit crab as a pet? Tucker got one ---- nine months ago --- and under his care “Big Guy” is still alive --- and thriving! Soon Tucker may have to change his own name to “Noah”. Clearly, he loves his pets, and cares for them well. He says that pets make life better, “ . . . but crazier!”

Tucker Lamkin and Big Guy, the Hermit Crab(Photo: Brittani Durand)

A comforting thought

It is good that Delta folk still cherish their pets and appreciate their working animals. It is also good that some --- like Tucker --- are expanding the definition of “pet” to include critters rarely seen as such when I was growing up.

One last thought: I never met Faye’s flying squirrels, but I was mightily impressed that she had them. They put my flying bees to shame.